


Mourning Glory

by Alzy (Museaic)



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:17:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Museaic/pseuds/Alzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your love brought forth blossoms with song in the time of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning Glory

You are alone in the gardens of Tialdarí, seeking out the long vacant bliss of the place you once called home. The wind drifts through the tree lined path, rustling the needled branches of fir trees and stirring your long black hair, unbound at last after a long sojourn in the wilderness. You are silent save for breathing, acutely aware of the sounds of the forest: the songs of thirteen birds found only in the Watchful Wood, the laughter of your kin as they enjoy their simple pleasures, even the whispers of the very trees surrounding you. At this moment, you feel at home, at last at rest after the journey that has lasted for more than half your life.

  
But, as always, the peace you seek flees with a single soft step forward. Since your return and the resumption of your place as Arya Dröttningu, daughter of the queen and heir to the Throne of Knots, the pressing of pain has been inexorably dogging your way. With every passing hour in Ellesméra, you are reminded of all that you have sacrificed, every loss a burden on your shoulders.

  
_So many friends dead, so many lives extinguished in this battle, a fight which we look to lose at any turn._

  
You are aware that the fate of many beings has fallen on one chosen by chance, a chance decided largely by your desperate actions. When you think of the beautiful sapphire dragon and her Rider, a blue-eyed human, barely past boyhood, with the Weeping Elder on Tel’naeír, you cannot help but wonder whether they can bear the responsibility you cast on them unwittingly.

  
Eragon. Though he has not clearly stated his intention, you have read it in his eyes, his gait, the flush of his cheeks when you enter his presence. The boy’s body believes he loves you, and certainly, he must feel what every man feels when he looks upon her face. But he cannot have what he so anxiously wants, despite all he has done for you. Though you owe him your life and nothing can erase that, though he believes himself immortal, though his station far exceeds your own, you do not, cannot love him, or any other man, be he älf, Shur’tugal, or mortal.

  
_Yes, you think, I am indebted to Eragon for this day and whatever future may fall on me. Yet if he knew what he asks of me, he would turn away in shame. He must never know what I have lost, just as no one can discover what I have hidden._

  
The yawë seems to burn your shoulder and the deep scars left by Durza flash sudden agony across your body as you are flooded by the memories you have suppressed since your captivity in the freezing dungeons of the Shade. Your breath catches in your throat as the face you have tried to forget appears in your minds’ eye. Not the visage of an enemy, but a far worse terror, the face of love, the face on the fairth in your mansion: Brown-black hair with star silver running down his shoulders. Eyes of cobalt blue which captured the essence of twilight as light faded into darkness.

  
_Fäolin. How I have longed to hear your voice again, to share the song we sang to the dawn. How I desire your strong arms around me, your hands entwined in mine._ Desperately, you fling frigid water over the blazing passions, _I never loved, he never loved, he never held my heart. I am bound to my people, my cause, my father’s cause._

  
Your denials merely fuel the rebellious feelings; your heart, sown with stones, bursts forth with flowering memories, refusing to let go. Looking down at your feet, your eyes catch sight of three blossoms of blue-tinged black and suddenly your progress down the verdant path is halted as you sink to your knees. Cupping the flowers in your hands, your eyes burst open, flooding your cheeks with tears as the fire burns brighter still. As your vision blurs, the boundary between the past and this moment goes with it, sweeping you back seventy years.

  
_Why must they sing? Why must they fill the very air with their ringing odes on the day of my mourning?_

  
Two hours have passed since sunrise on the longest day of the year. Ellesméra rings with songs and libations to the joy of living under the sun, far from the shadow of death. Libations flow through the lips of countless Älfakyn enraptured by the rays of the golden globe. You take no part in the Agaetí Dagan, sitting in the roots of Menoa with your hair hiding your eyes, wishing no more than to flee the sound of the ongoing revels. Your heart has no joy on this day, for it was on the solstice that your father, Evandar Könungr, spilled his blood on the plains of Illirea, and his blood stains your heart amidst the festivities. As you have ever since you aged enough to understand the absence of any father, you hold onto your rage at his death and grasp tightly to that coldest and most isolating of desires: the wish for vengeance.

  
_Someday, somehow, I will make the Black Betrayer pay for your blood; I will do as I must and save our people as you tried. I promise you, Evandar, father of my dreams, that you will be remembered._

  
Footsteps approach and stop before your huddled form. Looking up, you see the eyes of Fäolin, your kin, son of the Queen’s cousin Niduen the Cloud Weaver. Though seven years your senior, his blue eyes still shine with the light of youth. And he has made a name for himself by his ability with the green chant. You’ve heard that even the flame-scarred pines in the south of the wood respond to his song and that he created a new golden rose in honor of Oromis, Syrgja Ellri, the Weeping Elder. And that when your emerald eyes meet his, you find yourself.

  
“Your absence at the Greeting was noted by no small number of Älfakyn. Are you well?” he asks, passing over the customary greetings. You note that there is no hint of liqueur in his voice.

  
“I find no joy in revelry and caperings on this day, solstice or no. Other weights press me,” you respond with practiced flatness and weariness, but find yourself hoping that he will inquire further. Unlike so many of your people, when he hears, he seems to listen and seek comprehension.  
Without invitation, he lowers himself down at your left side, crossing his legs over a large root.

  
“Arya,” he says, “can you really believe that you are the only one to mourn a loss? We all lost that day; my mother still weeps for my sisters and my father his sons. Have you so closed yourself off to the world that you cannot see?”

  
Your cheeks flush crimson at his accusation; he has no right to judge you, for all his gifts and acclaim.

  
“If you seek to sway me with rebukes, then you must fail. No älf can compel me to forget my father the king. I will mourn him in my fashion and have every right not to celebrate on the day of his death.”

  
His forehead knits together and his slanted brows meet for an instant. You are silent with him, while the melodies and jubilations continue in every direction.

  
“I would not,” Fäolin says, “command you to forget Evandar, but I urge you to let grief pass when others rejoice. You can choose to dwell in happiness; it is a far better house than sorrow. I have watched bitter roots choke the life out of everything they seize, and I would see you live and flourish.” His voice is earnest, honest, and you sense that his advice rings true.

  
“I too,” he continues, “long to see a swift end made for the Betrayer, but I find that when others rejoice, my joys grow and overcome the darkness.”  
Glancing at Fäolin’s face, you can see that this is no façade. His eyes give up no secret hate, no coldness; he is warm in the depths of his being. He has what you earnestly desire, and you hate him for it. With shame, you turn away, not wishing him to see your jealousy, and hide again behind the jet-black curtain of your hair.

  
Fäolin stands. Then, without hesitation, extends his right hand to you. You grasp it and raise yourself up, not knowing why.

  
“Walk with me,” he says, and with your hand in his, he begins to walk onto away from the Eldest. Celebrating Älfakyn still flock on every path, and Fäolin veers off the path and away from the tumult. For a few minutes, you walk in silence, listening to the echoing cries grow distant. Fäolin’s hand stays wrapped around yours and you grip back as faint chants give way to birdsong.

  
Fäolin stops at the entrance to a grove of blue spruce with a trickling brook flowing through its center. At its southern end , two rowans grow a few feet apart, their upper limbs twined like hands in the form of an arch. A large moss-covered boulder sits at the edge of the brook, with the form of a bench painstakingly carved into it.

  
“I have never seen this glade before,” you state with surprise. Realization comes with the next breath. “Did you sing this place?”

  
Nodding, F äolin ducks his head and leads you toward the stone seat. You sit and face him.

  
“It is beautiful, even fairer than the Queen’s mansion.”

  
“It pleases you then? It brings you joy?”His tone conveys more urgency than his words possess.

  
Though unnerved by the way he spoke the question, you cannot lie. “It does.”

  
“Then it pleases me.”

  
Fäolin sighs and gazes out across the small stream. The babbling of the brook mingles with the sound of your breathing and his commingled. You hear him begin to speak.

  
“Arya, forgive me my presumption,” he hesitates, then goes on, “but I simply must know: What do you desire more than anything else?”

  
The abruptness of his question shocks you momentarily, as you consider why he should be curious. Then, you mull over his question, and find a reply that speaks truth. “Ever since I learned of my father’s death, I have sought to complete what he desired when he left the Watching Wood with our kin at his back. I want to see evils great and small perish from Alagaësia and the world renewed. I want peace. Do you understand, Fäolin,” you ask,, “can you grasp my passion?”

  
He turns to you with light shining in his eyes. “I have read you aright, then. I want you to know that I share your dream.” He pauses and fixing his eyes on yours, he takes both your hands in his own. “But I have another dream, one far more real than any war. Arya, I want to be yours. I have watched you grow from a youngling into a beautiful woman, fair among the Älfakyn. Though you see it not, you are a rare flower, a blossom among thorns.”

  
As he grows more earnest, he falls short of breath. You feel your heart beat ever faster. You cannot believe that such as he would see you beautiful, dröttningu though you may be. “I am no flower, but only a creeping vine. I have nothing you could want.”

  
Fäolin grasps your hands much tighter than before then releases your left hand. Placing a finger over his lips, he then presses it to yours. “Only truth between us. Don’t lie to yourself. Don’t deny yourself the light.

  
“Ä, Arya, I love you because you are different. You see the darkness as it is and still press on, wide awake. Your passion makes my heart burn for you. I have gone sleepless many a night for the thought of you at my side.”

  
You open your mouth to protest, but Fäolin keeps his finger pressed over your lips. Ignoring your attempt at protestation, he reaches down to the ground and grasps a handful of earth in his right hand. Then, opening his own mouth, begins to sing a green song. His voice rings with a haunting plea as he drowns out the brook with his repeated words.

  
“ _Ä blóm dagan, waíse minn nöttrada. Ä vinr rodule, tala abr minn vili elduna._  
 _“Vaxu med un fegurd furdulegur und myrkr. Vaxu fallegur und blakkr, dyrd abr morgn._  
 _Opnask, vaka, Ä dyrd abr morgn. Opnust fyirr Arya, Ä fagur blóm dagan._  
 _“Ä dyrd morgn, waíse minn nöttrada_.”

  
O, dawn bloom, be my night wish. O, sun friend, tell of my deep heart’s desire.  
Grow with a beauty strange and dark. Grow beautiful and black, glory of morning.  
Be opened, awaken, O, glory of morning. Open for Arya, O, beautiful dawn flower.  
O, morning glory, be my night wish.

  
You watch as a green stem shoots up from his palm full of dirt, sprouting first leaves and then three green buds. Fäolin continues the chant and the buds burst open, revealing a sight that takes your breath away. In his hand, Fäolin has sung three black morning glories, tinged with bright blue around the center.

  
“This is what I see when I look into your face, the light which I know lies deep within the fog you’ve cast about yourself. When you smile, the sight is all the more precious to me for the knowledge of its price. This is a rare and beautiful flower, as are you, Arya.”

  
He places the plant in your hands and you begin to cry. You feel his lips brush yours and know that you love him. You know that you will love him all your life.

  
As your tears fall, you look up and see the garden of Tialdarí before your eyes once more. It is as if no time had passed. You think upon the years following that solstice, the day you took the yawë and left Ellesméra, exiled from the Queen’s presence. You recall the secret meetings in the outskirts of the Watching Wood, the months and years that passed between those times. You sigh for the night twenty years ago that Fäolin rode away with you, accepting the cause of the impossible. But you return again and again to the stillness of the glade, and the thought of the love you shared for seventy long years.

  
A rush of wind passes above you and you hear loud cheers from the Älfakyn scattered throughout the garden. Looking up, you catch a glimmer of blue dragon light mingled with gold and your heart soars higher than the clouds. Raising your voice, you cry loudly with the others. Tears pour down your face as you rejoice uninhibited, and you can almost feel a hand in yours as you stand and run to your kin to celebrate the dawn of hope.


End file.
